Nov 13
I must be going mental or something.
Had a dream last night, like I was sitting on one of those big grey laid-down stones at that village-place, like we did last time I saw her, and it kind of shook itself, kind of woke itself up a bit. Like the real one did when we was there, and I still don't know what the bloody heck happened there. And next thing, in the dream this is, I'm on me tod, sitting on the stone still, but the grass ain't there any more, it's not green, everything's gone kind of orangey-red, including the stone itself, and it's bloody hot instead of bloody cold, and all that. And I'm shrinking and I'm shrinking, or the stone's growing or something, till all I can see is the surface of this bloody enormous stone I'm on, and other rocks or mountains or whatever in the distance. And there's a pathway down, so I take it, till I'm down at ground, in amongst a whole load of trees, and though they look a bit odd they're all normal height, so it's the stone that's changed, not me. And it's quiet, real quiet, kind of calming quiet, but way out in the distance there's a kind of clacking sound, like someone banging two sticks together, in a kind of funny rhythm, a kind of funny edge to it, sort of ta-ka-ta-ta-ke-ta, like it's leading somewhere. And I move over a bit and the sound's coming from a different direction, with a different rhythm, and so on. Does this about a dozen different times, a dozen different ways, without hardly moving at all. Then I hear voices coming, talking in some funny kind of clickery language that don't make sense, so I try to hide, and then I wake up.
Yeah. Bloody mental. But it was so bloody real it wasn't funny.
What's even more bloody daft is it sounds like that bloody great rock thing they've got in the middle of Australia. Can't get bloody Australia out of my mind at the moment, but at least it means I'm not stuck thinking about her so much.
But I ain't that crazy. Not yet, anyway. I am not going there, and that's flat.
YOU ARE READING
Yabbies - a novel
Science Fiction"Yabbies. Funny little things, all in their own world at the bottom of the dam. A bit like us, ain't they? Can't see a thing for all the mud in the water; bits and pieces drift down, in any old order, all out of sequence, an' we have to make sense o...
